


Another Cliched Mountain Lodge Romance Novel

by SpartanGuard



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Captain Swan January Joy 2018, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 00:05:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13352322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpartanGuard/pseuds/SpartanGuard
Summary: Emma Swan, avid reader of romance novels, appreciates them for their vapid characters and incredibly unrealistic settings. She never imagined that she'd ever stumble into one—or that the man she'd find living alone in a mountain lodge would be the male lead in her own story. (Or how quickly it would escalate—and how okay with that she was.)





	Another Cliched Mountain Lodge Romance Novel

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by some random discussions on tumblr that necessitated mountain lodge smut
> 
> for CS January Joy 2018

Though she was an avid reader, Emma wasn’t one for the literary classics. Those were far too stuffy and time-consuming for her and her life. But romance novels—the kind in the checkout line at the supermarket, covered with pictures of over-muscled hunks draped with busty maidens—those were her guilty pleasure, and she hated that she loved them. 

Maybe it was the vapid characters that she never got attached to, or the fantastical love scenes that were physically impossible but still arousing, but there was just something so wonderfully fake and cheesy about them that made it the perfect escape from her simple, solitary life.

And she’d read more than enough of them to know that, like it or not, she’d somehow wandered right into one.

It was her own damn fault for getting lost in the woods, she supposed, but it had been a perfect, crisp fall day and the leaves were the most brilliant red-gold against the blue autumn sky. 

Until it grew later, with the color of the sky increasingly matching the color of the leaves, and one wrong step had her twisting her ankle on a knobby root, and she was way too far off the trail to even begin finding it while limping. 

The sound of chopping wood made her jump at first, but it wasn’t far away and she was willing to risk whatever lumberjack forest person she would find if it meant not having to spend a night in the elements. She knew how to handle herself, after all, and she just needed a ride to her car. 

But when she hobbled to the edge of the clearing, she wasn’t at all prepared for the idyllic sight in front of her—not in reality, at least. There was a picturesque log cabin, a trail of smoke coming out of the chimney and light coming from clear windows giving it a homey character. An older but well-maintained pickup truck sat in the driveway. And next to the house, chopping wood, was who she assumed to be its owner.

He was a lumberjack alright, dressed in a plaid flannel, well-worn jeans, and work boots, but where she was expecting Paul Bunyan or the Brawny man, she got the cover of one of her boudoir fantasies. 

Tousled, short-cropped, dark hair framed a face that could only be described as ridiculously pretty: large blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, and a sharp jaw covered in gingery scruff looked completely out of place in this setting.

The strain of his back muscles against that blue plaid when he hefted an axe said otherwise, though, and the flex of his bicep was visible even from where she was, yards away. The fit of those jeans only highlighted his assets, and when he stood to take a breather, resting his axe on his shoulder, she got a view of the dark hair dusting his chest via the fair amount of undone buttons on his top. 

She’d hit her head when she fell, surely. This had to be a hallucination, because all this scene was missing was the scent of a Mountain Lodge candle.

“Can I help you, lass?”

Oh good lord, he even had a British accent, with a tiny lilt of something else. Now she knew she was fantasizing.

“Lass?”

Oh right, he was talking to her, and now taking cautious steps toward her. She shook her head to bring herself back to the real world, and gingerly shuffled forward.

“Hi! Sorry to barge in on you like this, but I got lost and couldn’t get back to my car, so I was wondering if you could give me—”

“Are you hurt?” he cut her off, concern coloring his tone and furrowing his brow. He tossed the axe to the side and took longer strides to her.

“Oh, it’s nothing, just twisted my ankle, I’ll be fi...” She trailed off when he reached her, kneeling to inspect the damage—which was pretty evident by the way she wasn’t putting weight on it, but she knew she’d be fine once she got back to her car and home with her ice packs and wine.

He rose back up to his full height, a hand or so taller than her, and met her gaze. She was surprised to see a gentle look in his eyes—which were even bluer up close, a bit grayish even—and an expression on his face she could only assume was care; she’d only seen it a few times in her life, so it was almost jarring to see it on someone she’d just met. “Nonsense. I know this is a bit forward, but if you’ll allow me, I can tend to that for you.”

She wasn’t good at letting people get close, physically or otherwise. But she’d never encountered someone who wanted to help her so badly; despite his chivalrous, polite tone, she could see a genuine desire etched in his features. And the longer she waited to reply, she saw something else slip in, something she knew all too well: the fear of rejection and acceptance of solitude. 

How many times had she seen that exact hurt countenance in the mirror? And suddenly, she realized that she may not even know his name, but she knew him, and suspected they had an awful lot in common. 

“Okay,” she quietly replied, and the trepidation on his features melted into an affectionate smile that cut dimples into his scruff. 

Then he went into action, moving to stand next to her, wrapping a strong arm under hers, and pulling her into his side. She hesitated a moment, suddenly feeling awkward, but an encouraging smile from him was all it took to wrap her arm around his back and shift her weight into him. He was warm and solid, but there was a softness that seemed to permeate from his soul. 

“I’m Killian, by the way,” he finally introduced as they slowly set off. God, even his name was enticing. 

“I’m Emma.”

She was still sure she was going to wake up from a really good dream as they moved closer to the cabin. They hadn’t gone far before he concluded it’d just be easier to carry her, despite her protestations (“I’ve carried felled trees heavier than you, love,” he threw back as he lifted her into his arms). Once inside, he gently placed her on a well-loved but plush sofa, propping her injured ankle on the ottoman, and then everything became kind of hazy as he removed her boots and tended to her with all the care and precision of a nurse. It was then she noticed the prosthetic in place of his left hand, but it didn’t appear to hold him back so she didn’t pay it much mind. 

And then, with a warm, firm squeeze on her bandage-wrapped ankle, it was all done, and he was gazing up at her with a friendly grin that she couldn’t help but return. It faded, though, and she was surprised at how quickly she missed it and wanted to put it back. 

“I’m sure you have somewhere to get back to now; someone waiting for you—” he started, but she cut him off. 

“I-I don’t.”

At first, he looked somber, but then the corner of his mouth ticked up. “Then, you’re more than welcome to stay here until you’re feeling up to heading back out.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, old foster kid tendencies kicking back in. 

“It’d be my pleasure, love.”

He made cocoa and got a fire started in the hearth of the rather spartan cabin—with its lightly nautical decor on its wooden walls—and she just watched as he worked, in awe of his graceful movements that belied the strength under them, and keenly aware of both his presence and the things it did to her heart (and other places). 

The light coming in from the many windows quickly faded to the inky blue-black of night, and he closed the navy curtains to prevent the incoming chill that surely accompanied those late-fall flurries she’d glimpsed. Those hadn’t been in the forecast, but then she remembered that she was partway up a mountain and not at her little seaside cottage—though her home was nearly as secluded as his. 

Conversation over dinner, with both of them curled up on the couch, only confirmed what she suspected: he too had a rough life, involving growing up without parents; losing his brother, his hand, and his first love; and the decision to make a fresh (if lonely) new start in the States. She told him about her similar childhood, her broken heart and the child she had to give up, and her own selective solitude, save for a few friends. 

“Why do you do that?” he asked her as he set about clearing the plates.

“Do what?” She was confused as she watched him move about the room, and felt her defenses instinctively rise at being challenged.

“Keep everyone at arm’s length,” he answered when he settled back on the sofa, closer than he’d been before. “They obviously care about you.”

“Why do you live by yourself in a cabin in the woods?” she lightly tossed back in a well-honed deflection, using a flirtatious tone that she was surprised to find was genuine for the first time in years.

“Fair point,” he conceded with an easy grin and a light chuckle. Then he swallowed. “But, if I did have people like that in my life,” he started, pausing to nervously scratch behind his ear, “I’d be loathe to stay closed off.”

She couldn’t hold back her response. “Even after all you’ve been through; everyone you’ve lost?”

“Aye.”

“You’re not scared?” She was speaking from experience, she knew.

“I live on a mountain by myself. Scared isn’t the least of it,” he answered, almost self-deprecatingly. Staring at floor, he finished, “I just don’t think that’s in the cards for me anymore.”

She was certain now she was dreaming: there was no way she just happened to stumble upon a handsome man with all the same issues she had. Surely the universe was playing a trick on her, or it had picked an odd way to teach her a lesson about her own use of emotional walls. Because seeing the way they were built up on Killian—someone who clearly had an immense capacity and desire for love—made her realize that while hers might keep the bad things out, they were also preventing the good from coming in.

So maybe it was time to take a risk and punch a hole through them.

She placed her hand on his arm, just above his prosthetic, drawing his guarded gaze back to her. Her heart raced at the physical contact, as innocent as it was, but if Killian’s quick draw of breath told her anything it was that he was impacted by it, too. 

“That’s not true, Killian. You deserve to love and be loved.” The tense draw of his features softened as he absorbed her words, and that was enough to give her the courage to continue. She took a deep breath. “Maybe we both do.”

For a moment, they were both frozen, letting the weight of her words suspend between them. He was studying her with an almost inquisitive look, and she feared she’d overstepped her bounds, but then he slowly leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers.

It was tentative at first, from both of them; they were clearly out of practice. But his silken lips felt like heaven against hers, and she tilted her head to deepen the kiss. He instinctively moved closer, eliminating what distance had remained between them, and reciprocated by burying his hand in her loose hair.

She nipped at his lush bottom lip and slid her hands up his arms to his shoulders; when she squeezed, they felt warm and strong through the flannel. Ignoring her injury, she threw a leg over his lap to straddle him. She was worried he might protest, but when he wrapped his left arm around her waist, she could tell they were very much still on the same page. In no time at all, their tongues were as tangled as his fingers in her hair, and Emma’s hands were drifting down his firm chest to the top button of his shirt.

Slowly, not giving up her assault on his mouth, she undid the first closure and waited for a reaction. Her caution surprised her, but she really didn’t want to mess this up. The gentle pelvic thrust he gave in response, though, spurred her on, and in no time at all, the shirt was open and her hands were pushing the flannel down his broad shoulders and over his large biceps, and he leaned forward to help her guide it over the straps of his prosthetic, off his arms, and toss it aside. Her fingers traced the dips of his collar bones before trailing down to his pecs and pressing against the muscles there. Briefly, she let her hands dance in the hair that covered his chest; it was dark and coarse, but sparse enough that it felt smooth with the skin underneath.

She was glad she’d taken off her leather jacket when she first got in as Killian’s hand drew a line of fire down her back through her thin sweater. Following her move, his thumb worked its way under the hem to the skin of her stomach and began to slide up until he was palming her breast through her lacy bra. (Honestly, she’d only worn it because it was the last one clean; fate obviously had known something she didn’t.) Her shirt suddenly felt constricting and sweltering, so she reluctantly broke the kiss to tug it off and toss it across the room.

Once free of the garment, she took a second to breathe in the relief of the cool air on her overheated skin. Then she returned her attention to Killian, who was staring back in awe. The fire made his blue eyes sparkle—or maybe it was just the wide-eyed way he was looking at her, the fine skin around them crinkling with his smile, that made him seem so much more carefree and younger than only minutes ago. His eyes darted as he studied her, so she took the opportunity to do the same: he had the perfect dusting of hair across his chest and in a line down his abdomen. He wasn’t one of those chiseled body-builder types that tended to be the norm in female fantasies; he was obviously fit and solid, but also soft enough to cuddle up with later on—which, if she had her way, she’d be doing later rather than sooner. 

“So bloody beautiful,” he breathed, shifting his hips and sitting up to wrap his arms around her waist and bring her closer. She felt his jean-clad erection brush against her core through her leggings, sending a jolt of heat straight through her and making her grip his sides to anchor herself. 

“So ‘re you,” she murmured back, her raspy voice matching the flush that had started at her center and now surely covered her exposed skin, but she was too enraptured with the freckles on his cheeks and the way his fringe fell over his forehead to care. And at the same instant, they came back together in another searing kiss. 

Soon, Killian’s attentions moved from her mouth, down her jaw, and sucked a line down her neck that had her head falling back, eyes closed in pleasure. She sighed as he moved across her collarbone, tugging her bra strap down as he nipped and kissed, stoking the fire within her just as easily he had the one in the hearth.

Seeking relief, she instinctively grinded into him. She chuckled when he groaned at the contact, and tucked herself into his neck, placing tiny kisses against his warm skin and breathing in his scent. He smelled familiar, like pine and cedar, with a hint of a spice she couldn’t think of. It was incredible and so perfectly him; they should bottle it. Or make a candle out of it. Wait—

“Oh my God, you even smell like the damn candle!” she exclaimed with her face still buried in the crook of his neck.

“The wha?” he slurred, pulling back from her. She sat up and he was staring at her, brow furrowed in confusion.

“The Mountain Lodge candle, from Yankee Candle,” she explained. He raised an eyebrow in question, but didn’t seem to know where she was going. So she babbled on, “It’s this candle that smells all and manly and woodsy and like the perfect stereotypical female fantasy. And you smell just like it.”

“Is that a bad thing?” he wondered with a slight smirk.

“No, not at all,” she answered, much calmer, but she was still convinced the universe was playing some trick on her. She dragged her hands back up to his shoulders, feeling every bump and curve and line in between as if to make sure he was actually there. At this point, she couldn’t bear the thought that he might not be. “Just...tell me that you’re real,” she entreated. “Tell me that this isn’t all some romance novel fantasy playing out in my head.”

He licked his lips in a move that should have been lewd, but the tender look in his eyes and soft smile on his lips made it something else entirely—something that should have scared her, and probably both of them, but just made her heart race even more: something bordering on loving.

In a low voice, he told her, “How about I show you?”

He slid his hand from where it had settled at her hips down over the curve of her rear and used both arms to guide her legs around his waist. She gripped his shoulders and squeezed her thighs as he stood, until he had her held tight against him.

As he carried her (yet again), she made quick work of her bra, letting it join her top wherever it had landed in the great room, and then laid herself back on him, chest to chest. The hair across his pecs tickled her stimulated nipples in the best way, and she let out a slow exhale at the sensation.

Because her life was a cliche now, there was a large fur rug in front of the fireplace. There, Killian knelt and laid her down; the coarse fur was surprisingly plush and felt smooth against her bare skin. He disappeared, and she sat partway up, worried, but he returned a moment later holding the throw pillows from the couch and wordlessly propped her injured ankle with one.

Seriously—she must have fallen and hit her head in the woods, and was presently dying of exposure for this to be her reality. Even as Killian started placing kisses at the hollow of her throat, trailing them down the center of her body until he reached the waistband of her leggings, and then continuing the line whilst slowly pulling off her pants and undies at once—even then she was pinching herself to make sure this wasn’t a dream. Granted, “pinching herself” awfully resembled” stroking her nipples,” but it had the same effect.

She still couldn’t believe it as she watched him gently part her legs, guide the healthy one to a propped position, and lift her hips to support them with the other pillow, despite all the feelings stirred by his careful ministrations. It wasn’t until he took a first tentative lick at her entrance that she was thoroughly convinced this wasn’t make believe. Because there was no way she could even imagine anyone as talented as Killian going down on her.

It was all she could do to not rut against his face, and thankfully his warm hand was pressed low on her stomach, both holding her in place and keeping a comforting weight on her growing pleasure. She found herself gripping the rug as he lapped at her folds, varying the speed and depth at which his skilled tongue maneuvered. The brush of his beard against her delicate skin tingled in the most delicious way. Every swipe of his tongue brought her closer and closer to her peak, which she’d been fairly close to before he even started. 

She tensed, trying to hold it off and vaguely aware of the way he himself seemed uncomfortable, but he noticed her hesitation. He glanced up at her from between her legs and, in a wrecked voice, practically begged, “Come for me, love.” 

And, because she was finding that she couldn’t deny him anything, she did. A second later, she fell over the edge, climaxing with a shout as waves of pleasure ran through her body, rippling out from her core. Not even the dull ache from her ankle, which had moved during her release, could crash this high.

Killian, eternal gentleman that he was, licked her sex a few more times as she came down before sitting back on his haunches to readjust her ankle. He moved awkwardly, though, and she could the strain of his arousal still very evident, if not more so.

Careful not to move her leg, she slowly sat up. He tried to stop her. “Easy there; you don’t want to—”

But his protestation died with a low growl when the back of her hand brushed the fly of his jeans and the hardness beneath. She repeated the motion with the heel of her palm, eliciting an even deeper moan, his head falling back and spine arching at her touch. Again she stroked, and reveled in watching his chest heave; he was somehow even more beautiful when aroused and she could feel her own desire building once more, even so soon after the last.

“Emma—please—” he stuttered, reaching for and stilling her wrist before she could stroke again. 

As best she could from her awkward seated position, she leaned forward and whispered in his pointed ear, “Your turn.” He sighed and nodded.

Quickly but carefully, she undid his fly and pushed down his boxer briefs to free his stiff cock, which was, of course, as attractive as the rest of him and ready to go. Gently but firmly, she grasped his narrow hips and tugged him forward, sliding her hands to his lower back as they moved and slipping his clothes over his firm ass. Bracing himself on his forearms while she leaned back on her elbows, he managed to shake off his pants and then, once free of the offending garments, hovered over her.

Lightly, she placed a hand on the back of his neck and pulled him down to her; even if it had only been minutes since their lips had last been joined, that was much too long as far as she was concerned. 

While their mouths resumed their earlier waltz, her other hand trailed down his back and circled his side down to his manhood and began to stroke. He was like smooth velvet and warm in her hand as she slowly pulled from the base to the tip of his generous girth. His whole body shuddered on the first drag, and he hissed and bit his lip; but it was back to kissing on the next, and eventually his hand wandered to her breast, caressing it while she did the same to him.

The longer she worked, the more his hips moved with her, occasionally brushing his hardened length against her core. If the way he was slowly coming apart under her touch wasn’t enough to renew her arousal, that did it for sure.

So when he pulled back, strained and panting and stuttering, “I—I need—,” she cut him off.

“I want you,” she whispered. “Inside.”

His eyes opened wide. “Are you sure, Emma? Do we need—”

She appreciated his train of thought, but it wasn’t necessary. “We’re good. Now, please,” she breathed, “get inside me.”

“As you wish.”

He placed his hand over hers on his shaft, keeping it in place, and knelt back a bit. She guided him, circling her entrance with the tip of his cock. And then he slowly slid in, stretching and filling her perfectly and wholly.

They only paused there for a second, overwhelmed by the feeling of being joined, when both started shifting at the same time. 

Somewhat startled, she grabbed his waist as he slowly pulled part of the way out. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, gripping her side and using his left arm to support him. He quickly thrust back in as she arched her hips up to meet him. He smiled at her movement, and what could she say? She was impatient to have him back inside her when it felt so good.

They set a rhythm with their push-pull, in and out, plunging and thrusting, feeling every beautiful inch of him drag against her walls as her hands did the same along his strong back. They were constantly increasing the pace until the pressure built within her was even more than before. Killian’s halting movements told her he was close, too.

“Love, I’m about to—” “Got it.” She reached in between them, finding the nub of her clit, and she’d hardly even made contact before she was coming, her release gripping her as shocks consumed her body and her head fell back with a rapturous gasp. She was sorry that she couldn’t see the look on Killian’s face when he followed her not a second later, but she could feel him stilling and pulsing within and heard his cry of pleasure. 

They let bliss consume them for an unknown amount of time, only aware of the high they’d reached together and the feel of one another within and around them. But eventually, Killian slipped out and collapsed next to her on the rug, keeping an arm around her.

“So,” he panted, “does that convince you I’m real?” She turned her head to look at him, unsurprised to see an amused smirk topped by an arched brow.

She hummed back. “Yeah, I think so. But,” she started, reaching over to brush his hair off his forehead, “you’re more than welcome to make sure I really know. Maybe a change in scenery is needed?”

He gave a devilish grin. “How about the bedroom? The mattress springs are rather loud; there’s no way anyone can sleep through that.”

“Sounds perfect.”

* * *

Sunlight and the sound of birds chirping awoke Emma the next day. She blearily blinked her eyes to see the frosty world outside the window, snow dusting the branches in contrast to the bright red leaves.

She was sore in all the right places, save for her bum ankle, and stretched under the thick down blanket covering the bed. 

Arms tightened around her and the body behind her shifted in protest of her movement. More carefully this time, she flipped over, and there he was: just as warm and soft and solid as he was last night. 

Killian cracked an eye open as she placed her hand on the smooth skin of his stomach, near the V of hips. “Everything alright, love?” he asked, his voice gravelly with sleep. 

“Perfect,” she whispered, then placed a small, tender kiss on his lips and tucked herself back into him, her head on his chest. 

So what if the past 24 hours had felt like a romance novel? She never imagined her life would ever resemble a work of fantasy—especially one like this—but she couldn’t poke fun or complain here. All that mattered was that it was real.  

 


End file.
